


The Line begins to blur

by dr_zook



Category: Lost Souls - Poppy Z. Brite
Genre: Baking, Caring, Cooking, M/M, Moving, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-09
Updated: 2015-01-09
Packaged: 2018-03-06 21:44:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3149486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dr_zook/pseuds/dr_zook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve and Ghost are moving out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Line begins to blur

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theskywasblue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theskywasblue/gifts).



> Wrote this years ago and decided to archive it here! :)
> 
> Title and first lines are borrowed from NINE INCH NAILS. Thanks, man.

_there are things that I said I would never do_  
_there are fears that I cannot believe have come true_  
_for my soul is too sick and too little and too late_  
_and my self I have grown too weary to hate_  
  
_[NINE INCH NAILS - The Line Begins to Blur]_

 

"Did you throw this into the trash?" Ghost waves an old, tattered book in front of Steve's nose. "I just found it peeking out of the bin."  
  
"Well, yeah?" Steve shrugs. "It almost decapitated me when I pulled down this box from the top shelf in the closet. Fell out, you know?" He turns again to sort out the socks which would stay single happily ever after - regardless whether they moved with them into their new flat or not. From the corner of his eye he sees Ghost, still waving that thing. "What?"  
  
"It's mine."  
  
"Yeah, thought so. For it's not mine. Sorry, wasn't aware you still need it."  
  
"It's a cookbook," Ghost explains like this would explain everything. He has this certain tone in his voice, sometimes. But it never explains anything _at all_.  
  
"I noticed. But I also noticed you never use it. Never saw you paging through it." Steve spots the last pair of actually matching socks. He feels like Noah, being on the lookout for the last pairs of animals before the Deluge approaches... He chuckles. Maybe he should cut back the weed.  
  
"It's handwritten, Steve." Ghost had stopped waving with it and flips it open. At random, it seems. He plonks on the floor where he had stood and starts reciting a recipe.  
  
Steve cannot _not_ notice the singsong creeping into Ghost's voice, making it something more than a recipe for a cherry cake with poppy seeds.  
  
"It's my favourite, you know?" Ghost closes the book in his lap and looks Steve straight in the eye. His pale eyeballs are glazed with hunger and pleasant anticipation.  
  
"I'll bake you this one," Steve hears himself say. He's never baked something before. Pot cookies don't fucking count.  
  
Ghost's tongue wets his lower lip. "Oh, thank you." He smiles, and reclines onto his elbows. The hem of his at-least-two-sizes-too-big T-shirt rides up, baring a sliver of almost bone-white skin above the waistband of his faded jeans.  
  
Steve blinks, and shoves the leftover socks into the trash bag. "You're welcome," he murmurs blushing between two coughs.


End file.
